


Songs of Fire and Water (Klance one-shots)

by kassanova



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: I am so sorry, Lance and Keith - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Voltron, i'm klance trash, keith and lance, klance, voltron legendary defender - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12939180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kassanova/pseuds/kassanova
Summary: A collection of Klance one-shots, as written by yours truly.Each chapter is a different one-shot.(note: updating as written.)





	1. Pining.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance jolted awake in his bed, his hand flying to his chest and clawing at the skin over his heart.
> 
> He had dreamed about him again. He had dreamed about him just as he had the night before, and the night before that.
> 
> He had dreamed of him—his eyes, his lips, his touch, his voice—and it drove him mad.
> 
> Utterly, explicitly, psychotically mad.

                Lance jolted awake in his bed, his hand flying to his chest and clawing at the skin over his heart.

                He had dreamed about him again. He had dreamed about him just as he had the night before, and the night before that.

                He had dreamed of him—his eyes, his lips, his touch, his voice _—_ and it drove him mad.

                                Utterly, explicitly, psychotically _mad._

                He wanted to slam his face into the wall as hard as he could and rip every single strand of hair on his head out by the roots. He was about three seconds away from ejecting himself out the air lock without a second thought.

                Of _all_ his _favorite_ people to dream of—Jennifer Lawrence, Harrison Ford, Margot Robbie, Carrie Fisher—he _had_ to dream of that stupid, self-centered, obnoxious, over-achieving _turd-wipe_ of a Black Paladin. He had a freaking 2007 redneck scene-kid mullet, for God’s sake. _Heck,_ even freaking _Steve Buscemi_ would’ve been better to dream about than Keith Kogane _._

                But at the same time, he couldn’t help but gaze past the glow-stars stuck randomly on his ceiling in thought. As much as he hated the dark-headed Texan, he couldn’t forget the way that Keith (or, rather, the dream version of him anyway) had pulled him closer by the collar and kissed him underneath the array of galaxies and nebulas swirling on the other side of the glass on the observation deck. He couldn’t forget the way his body had melted into his own with such a comfortable ease that it seemed like it had happened a million times before, like it was perfectly normal. He couldn’t forget the look in the Paladin’s eyes when he had pulled away and pressed their foreheads and noses together and laughed for seemingly no reason at all.

                It had felt so real, almost too real to be a dream.

                It had seemed too intimate a dream to have about someone that he wasn’t deeply and unapologetically in love with.

                                No. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. He _hated_ Keith. He _hated_ him. He…

                He loved him. Or liked him. Or some odd, unwelcome, uncalled-for feeling of the sort.

                Lance pounded that last thought out of his head with the palm of his hand and half-groaned, half-screamed in exasperation. He grimaced at the thought of that word: intimate. That was too strong a word. It wasn’t like he dreamed that they _did_ anything—it was just a kiss, nothing else. Affectionate, maybe? Whatever the word was, it occurred too often and too realistically for him to just brush it off as some random dream his brain generated to keep him awake at night.

                                I mean, at least it was better than his chronic nightmares, right? Right??

                                                Lance didn’t know. He’d almost rather have the nightmares.

                Maybe it was just the weird dreams he’d been having about Keith making him think weird things. It _totally_ wasn’t because he was in _love_ with him….

                But, deep down, Lance knew what was really happening.

                He really _was_ falling in love with Keith. It had all begun way, wayyy back when Lance had saved Coran from that explosion right after he found the Blue Lion and Keith had held him in his arms as he struggled to keep breathing, to keep his heart beating. It had only grown. Slowly, yeah—but Lance had covered it up with self-proclaimed hatred, with adulterated pride.

                It was becoming much, much harder to cover it up, now. Especially since he couldn’t really seem to control how much he seemed to flirt around Keith— _and_ how obviously offended he got when Keith wouldn’t react or flirt back.

                But, then again, there was always that night they had shared under the stars on the observation deck. He had accidentally told Keith a few things that he probably shouldn’t have—about his brother and his family and all—but Keith had told him a few things about himself that no one else had known, too. That was a start, wasn’t it? They had had another bonding moment, just as Keith had said. And Keith even _flirted_ with him for the first time…

                                                      (“ _Did you just ask me out for coffee?”)_

                                                                                                                                                ….and they had spent even more time alone just drinking coffee and talking. And there was always that look that Keith had when Lance had gazed out into the stars. Lance had known that Keith had stared at him when he thought he wasn’t paying attention, but Keith certainly didn’t notice the Red Paladin staring back when he was caught up in the countless constellations. Remembering that expression on Keith’s face always left Lance in a daze. The childlike wonder reflected in the Texan’s eyes gave him a glimpse of someone different—a Black Paladin of a different color, if he may. Someone other than the angsty, closed-off punk with the emo mullet who listened to too much Metallica and Chris Stapleton.

                He wouldn’t allow himself to think of it outright, but he couldn’t help but beat himself up over that night. He could have told him then. He could have kissed him. The moment had been there. They had stared at each other for five whole seconds and not said a word, for God’s sake. He _should_ have told him. He _should_ have kissed him.

                Should have told him, what? It’s not like Lance cared about him.

                                Yes, he did.

                                                No, he didn’t.

                The Cuban sighed. Yes, he did. He cared about him too much to act like he didn’t.

                How could Keith be so oblivious?

                                That was another reason why Lance wished he could hate him.

                                                But he couldn’t make himself do it.

                Soon enough, the truth would come bubbling between his lips to Hunk or Pidge or someone else—maybe even Keith himself—but he didn’t _want_ it to. He didn’t _want_ to admit those feelings to himself right now. He didn’t _want_ to think about what it’d be like to be that close to Keith for real—to crush his own lips against his, to grab him by the hips and pull him closer, to feel his breath on his cheeks and to taste the sparks on his tongue.

                Ironically enough, he thought about it anyway.

                His heart lurched, and he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow and growled so harshly that his throat hurt. This had gotten embarrassingly out of hand. He wanted to hate him so bad. He wanted to despise him, to loathe him. But, _God_ , how could he? How could he hate _that_? How could he hate those slate-grey eyes and that pale skin and that stupid mullet and those _arm_ muscles _, hot dang_—stop it, Lance. Stop it.

                                It was too hard to stop.

                He rolled over onto his back again and rubbed his eyes with his fists. Maybe he’d forget the way Keith made his chest constrict with hopeful anxiety when he got too close. Maybe he’d forget the way his cheeks burned when they made eye contact. Maybe he’d forget the way his eyes lit up with Keith looked in his direction or smirked at his lame jokes. Maybe he’d forget Keith.

                Maybe he’d forget him.

                But that wasn’t very likely, now, was it?

                Lance certainly didn’t think so.

                                Not one bit.

                                                Not at all.

 


	2. Moments Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was moments like this that captured Keith’s heart the most.
> 
> Keith loved the dimples in his back.
> 
> Keith loved the lines of his palms.
> 
> Keith loved the twitch of his nose.
> 
> Keith loved Lance in so, so many more ways that he could never begin to convey in words.

                It was moments like this that captured Keith’s heart the most.

                He could hear Lance’s deep, slumbering breaths as he slept soundly on his chest, his cheek pressed against the thin fabric of his dark-grey tee-shirt. Another faint, lingering snore erupted from Lance’s throat, causing the corners of Keith’s lips to turn upright in silent adoration.

                He admired the freckles sprinkled lightly over Lance’s dark face, the long, thick lashes that fluttered gently against his cheeks in his sleep, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed, the way his coffee-colored hair fell in soft waves on his forehead. He admired the weight of Lance on his chest, the sensation of Lance’s body pressed against his own, the scent of Lance’s cologne that _never quite seemed to fade away,_ no matter how long it lingered on his skin. He admired everything about him, from the moles that dotted the smooth skin of his shoulder-blades to the teeny bit of soft belly fat that still clung stubbornly to the lines of his waist.

                Keith loved the dimples in his back.

                Keith loved the lines of his palms.

                Keith loved the twitch of his nose.

                Keith loved Lance in so, so many more ways that he could never begin to convey in words.

                His eyes had wandered over Lance’s sleeping face so, so many times before—but he never got tired of it, never got tired of _him,_ never got tired of drinking in his imagine like a man dying of thirst in a hot desert. It didn’t matter how many times he admired Lance’s sleeping form. He loved it more and more with each and every night that his head fell upon his chest, with each and every night that his heartbeat pulsed in synchronization of Keith’s own. It took his breath away.

                Keith knew the planes of Lance’s face so well by now that he could draw them with his eyes closed. He knew every nook and cranny that his body made, knew every blemish and every dimple, knew every aspect of Lance McClain by heart.

                It was moments like this, as they lay together quietly beneath the array of stars and galaxies and nebulas outside Keith’s window, that forced Keith’s reason to fight so perfectly in perspective.

                After all, it wasn’t like Keith had ever felt as much of a reason to march into battle like the other Paladins did. Keith didn’t have a family to return home to. He didn’t have anyone back on Earth that he wanted to protect. He didn’t have parents that loved him, or siblings that looked up to him, or family and friends who cared about his well-being.

                He had never had those things.

                Until now, he realized.

                                _Lance_ was his family.

                _Lance_ was his reason to fight. _Lance_ was his motivation.

                                Keith still kicked himself over how long it took him to realize that.

                No matter. Lance was all his now. They were one.

                Keith allowed his eyelids to slip over his eyes once more as Lance’s hot, sleeping breath gently tickled his cheekbones, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. He was so _warm—_ Lance’s body was like a sauna against Keith’s normally-freezing-cold skin. A contented sigh slipped between Keith’s lips.

                This was it, he thought. This is why he fought.

                He fought for these moments.

                He fought for Lance.

                He fought to preserve these very moments, so that they could one day return to Earth and get married on the beach in Cuba like Lance had mentioned so many times before.

                “ _I’m telling you, Keith—when we get back to Earth, I’m gonna introduce you to my family. You’re gonna meet all of my family in Havana, and they’re going to love you. They’re going to adore you. And we can get married on the beach. I’ve always wanted a beach wedding. Wouldn’t that be cool, Keith??”_

To be honest, Keith had never been to the beach. And the thought was certainly exciting.

                Marrying Lance? On the beach in Cuba??

                                Becoming _his?_ Completely, entirely _his??_ At Lance’s favorite place on earth??

                The thought of seeing Lance’s eyes light up at that notion made Keith’s heart skip a beat.

                Then again, the thought of Lance standing in front of him barefoot on the sand, clad in simple dress slacks and a button-down shirt and a vest and bowtie, gently saying his vows to Keith while the wind whipped at his coffee-colored hair and while the turquoise ocean waves pounded into the sugary sand behind him _also_ made Keith’s heart skip a beat.

                Everything about Lance made Keith’s heart skip a beat.

                                He was so in love with him that it hurt.

                Keith had never considered himself a romantic. He had never thought that falling in love would be a possibility for him. Human companionship seemed an impossible occurrence.

                … That is, until Lance’s kisses blossomed across his lips and embedded their very warmth into his being.

                                Now, Keith couldn’t ever imagine a life without him.

                And so, Keith would fight for him.

                                Keith would die for him.

                                                Keith would live for him.

                                                                Keith would _breathe_ for him.

                After all, it was moments like this that Keith lived for.

                                It was moments like this that kept Keith’s hope _alive._


	3. Bedsheets.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has Keith really fallen in love with that dumbass…?
> 
> …. For now, he chooses to ignore that question.
> 
> He’ll choose to ignore the way his heart is pounding. He’ll choose to ignore the thoughts of Lance under his blankets with him. He’ll choose to ignore the intoxicating scent of his bedsheets—the scent that belongs to no one but Lance McClain.
> 
> It’s just a crush, if anything. And crushes go away.   
> Maybe, Keith thinks, maybe this will all just go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, guys!
> 
> so sorry for my blatant inactivity on this account since my second semester of college began. shit hit the fan, and i kind of had some major problems with my mental health and needed a M A J O R break for a while. 
> 
> this chapter is another one-shot that i previously uploaded as an entirely different work, but i'm trying to clean up my page a little and decided to merge it with SOFAW. if you haven't read it yet, then enjoy!!--and if you have, then feel free to enjoy again. new content coming soon, so stay tuned!!
> 
> \--k

               I had never really understood those songs that said “my bedsheets smell like you.” That’s always been an odd thing to write into a song, right? That had always confused me. How could bedsheets smell like a person? You wouldn’t think your significant other would be in them enough to make them smell like that. I always thought that it was cliché, that it was just one of those things that artists wrote into songs to make them more appealing to fans of lascivious, over-sexualized music.

                Well, as I lie here in my bed, counting the glow-stars that Lance McClain had dotted on my ceiling just two days prior,  _surrounded_  by his scent on my bedsheets, I realize just how wrong I had been about that.

                It’s not like we had done anything. We aren’t even officially  _together_ just yet, and Netflix binge-watching and forking down countless bowls of junk food isn’t really seen as a passionate evening. Hell, I don’t even think he sees me in the same way that I see him. I don’t even know if he feels the same way. I don’t want to go to sleep with his scent cloaking me like the covers that I’m lying under. I don’t want to fall asleep with him on my mind. I don’t want to fall for him even more. I don’t even want to remember that he had been here with me, alone. But I can tell that he had been here, nonetheless.

                I smell him on my pillow. I smell him on my sheets. I smell him on my skin, on my clothes. I smell him everywhere.  _Everywhere._

                And I know that he isn’t mine, that he probably never will be. But that doesn’t stop my heart from beating even faster when I realize that this had  _happened_ ; he had agreed to be here with me, to be  _alone_  with me, to sit on my bed with me instead of on the couch in the den with the other Paladins, he had wanted to be  _alone_ with me.

                And I didn’t do anything at all to show him how I feel.

                Idiot, idiot,  _idiot._  How  _stupid_ was I?

                                But then again—what if he really  _didn’t_ feel the same way?

                But he’s  _bi,_  for God’s sake. He wouldn’t be  _completely_  grossed out if he found out that I had feelings for him, would he?

                                _Keep your mouth shut, Kogane. You’ve just now gotten to where you can stomach being near each other. Don’t ruin it._

                                               .... Don’t ruin it.

                That still doesn’t slow my heart’s hurdle to the conclusion that I’m in love with him. That still doesn’t stop me from burying my face into my Lance-scented pillow and letting out a frustrated scream. That still doesn’t stop my face from burning crimson-red every time I remember that he had been in my bed, underneath my blankets, his fingertips brushing the side of my hand at the intense moments of the show when his eyes narrowed in focus on the television, his lips parting slightly as he concentrated on the cinema before us. That still doesn’t make it hurt any less when I realize that I wasn’t watching the show and that I was watching  _him:_  watching the way his eyes flickered, the reflection of the television in their depths; watching his chest rise and fall with each breath he took; watching his brow furrow and his hands twitch and his body shift positions under the blankets. Watching  _him_.

                Falling for  _him_.

                                 _I fucking hate this_.

                I roll over again onto my back and rub my hands on my eyes, trying to ignore Lance’s scent on my—well, on everything. There’s no way I that I’m in love with him. There’s no way. I hate him. He’s obnoxious and loud and arrogant and annoying and—

                          —selfless and humble and attractive and—

_—no, no, no, no, no, no, no, Keith, bad, bad Keith._

_Bad, bad, bad Keith. No._

Have I  _really_  fallen in love with that  _dumbass…_?

                I sigh and roll back onto my side, squeezing my eyes shut and chewing on the inside of my lip. I can taste the metallic twinge of iron on my tongue as it starts to bleed.

                …. For now, I’ll choose to ignore that question.

                I’ll choose to ignore the way my heart is pounding. I’ll choose to ignore the thoughts of Lance under my blankets with me. I’ll choose to ignore the intoxicating scent of my bedsheets—the scent that belongs to no one but  _him_.

                It’s just a crush, if anything. And crushes go away.

                                Maybe this will go away.

                                                The  _last_  thing I need right now is Lance McClain.

                                                                     No matter how badly I might want him. 


End file.
